Protège Moi
by MeinBritishBroski
Summary: Hetalia AU. FrUK. Mpreg. In which Arthur detaches himself completely and Francis tries to pull him back.
1. Chapter 1

Francis knew this side of Arthur quite well. It took him a while to get this way - time, alcohol, and heartbreak were always needed for it to rear its pathetic head and command 'Pity me'. He should have known that Arthur was drunk by the dangerous lilt to his normally clipped, rounded speech. He should have guessed it was his older brother's fault. He, after all, was the only one capable of pushing Arthur into the deep, rum-filled rut. He should have guessed a lot of things, he supposed, as he carried the half-conscience man down the block to his house. He should have never allowed him to live so close to a pub.

Thankfully, Arthur had his keys on him. Francis entered his home with ease and refrained from turning on any of the lights. He stomped up the carpeted stairs and walked down the hallway to his bedroom where the bed was half-made and clothes were strewn all over the place. He set Arthur on the bed, which seemed to trigger the other's drunken clinginess. At first, Francis tried to lightly pry the other's fingers off of himself, but found that he couldn't.

"Why're you leaving me, frog?" Arthur slurred and blinked wearily, trying in vain to lift his head up only to find that it hurt too much.

"Just go to sleep,_ mon amie." _he kept his voice hushed, aware that he would need to stay the night in order to make sure Arthur was functioning properly in the morning. He looked down at Arthur, who seemed to be trying to process what was just said to him. His cheeks flushed and dark eyebrows furrowed, he was focused so hard - staring deep into the other's blue eyes.

"Don't leave. Stay... please." he tightened his grip on the other's shirt sleeve, pulling him closer and letting out a childish giggle when the other practically fell on top of him. He opened his mouth and attempted to kiss Francis, and normally, Francis would have allowed this and partaken in a little fooling around - but for some reason he felt like holding back.

"No, _Angleterre._ I will stay the night, but you will hate me in the morning if I make you sore." Francis propped himself up with his arms, and tried his best not to notice how enticing Arthur looked with his face all red and his legs splayed like that. The moment he lay down next to the short man he was gripped with slender, yet strong arms around his waist. Arthur nuzzled against his chest and then he crashed, muscles going limp and soft mumbles ceasing.

When this happened, Francis held him even closer and inhaled the scent of him; all sweat and rum and smoke. It was awful.

It was the sad truth, but it was only this side of Arthur that smiled when he was held.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur woke up with familiar sensations coursing through his body; a splitting headache, aching chest, the inside of his mouth being the equivalent to sandpaper. He drew back the curtains and closed his eyes; expecting to be confronted by a sunny day, but instead he was greeted by a dreary morning. As he realized he was wrong he opened his eyes, and began to knead the sleep out of them with the back of his hands. Putting yesterday behind him, he began to wonder if today would be better.

He watched the clouds move sluggishly in the sky for a few moments, his hazy mind not registering when Francis walked up the stairs on socked feet. A small cup of sizzling liquid was gently nudged past his curled fingers and into his hands. It took the Englishman a moment before he recognized what it was.

"Are vous feeling up to attending the meeting today, Angleterre?" Francis asked softly, he absentmindedly fumbled with the edge of the blanket. He leaned towards the other and rested his chin on the shorter man's shoulder.

"It's not as if I have a choice." Arthur sighed as he sipped at the seltzer. He completely ignored the Frenchman's affections and continued staring out the window.

"Do... vous want to talk about it?"

"About what, git?" Arthur's eyebrows knitted together.

_"Ah,"_ Francis started, his airy demeanor only agitated Arthur more, causing him to visibly bristly when his arm was lightly stroked by a gentle hand, "About, _ah,_ the reason _mon petit lapin _has been... what is the expression? 'Drinking himself to death'?" Francis seemed to get closer then, if only to inhale the scent of the other's neck and continue touching him in a somewhat comforting fashion.

Arthur let his jaw go slack for a moment, before he stiffened it - chin jutting out in defiance. He narrowed his sultry green eyes and spoke stiffly, "I am doing no such thing."

"Now vous are lying to me." Francis spoke these words slowly, voice turning to a pronounced hollowness, a tired tone. They had done this too many times before. If they kept having this conversation it would escalate to a full-blown argument - or worse; a physical fight. Usually, their fights were only physical on Arthur's part; he took a few swings and jabs, and attempted to hit the Frenchman where it counted. But not today.

Arthur's body gave in and he settled his head atop the other's. Still blankly staring out the window, he laced their fingers together and then shook the other's hand lightly. It was an odd, surprising change in response. Francis had been prepared for a shout, but the words whispered next were soft.

"Let me get ready. I'll meet you downstairs. Then we can go."

Francis left. Arthur stood.

Arthur got in the shower and washed his body from his head down to his toes. He donned casual clothes and pulled on a black overcoat. Without much hesitation he descended the stairs and pulled on his shoes, trying not to be disheartened by the rain pounding on the roof. He grabbed the house keys and sauntered out into the living room, not surprised to see Francis lounging on the couch, feet propped up on the ottoman.

"Are you ready?"

"Oh... I suppose." Francis sighed in his oh-so-tragic way. He hefted himself up and joined Arthur, holding the door open.

They shared a silent walk through the rain, all the way across town to where the meeting was being held. When they got there, they seated themselves; about halfway in Arthur found his eyelids growing heavy. Francis's shoulder was the closest thing he could lean on, so he did. The meeting was slowing down anyway, and the majority of those attending weren't really paying attention. What was there to worry about? Absolutely nothing. Tomorrow they had the day off; tomorrow, they could spend some quality time together and _tomorrow_ Arthur could get his head straight. At least, for the time being.

Arthur felt a reassuring hand settled firmly on his hip, he allowed his eyes to slide shut and his mind to be washed over by the deep sleep that threatened to engulf him.

_Dors le mal est passé, il te rattrapera pas_  
><em>Le souffle coupé, tu n'es plus son appât<em>  
><em>Ta peine s'est fendue au délire des autres<em>  
><em>Qui oublieront bien vite que tu n'es plus des nôtres<em>

* * *

><p><strong>Boop. <strong>This is more of a stress relieving thing for me - much like Malo was. I cannot promise quality because this is merely me spilling my heart. To be honest, there is not much quality in there. These are cobwebs.

The song lyrics at the end are Fondu Au Noir by Coeur de Pirate. They roughly translate to this;

_Sleep, the worst is over, it won't get you_  
><em>Out of breath, you're no longer its prey<em>  
><em>Your efforts are useless to the madness of others<em>  
><em>Who will forget quite quickly that you're no longer one of us<em>


End file.
